Lost in the Plains: Me and Teddy Roosevelt--We Go Way Back

Lost in the Plains: Me and Teddy Roosevelt--We Go Way Back: It's fair to say that in my family, we keep things. Not because they are of particular value. Not always because they have signif...

Me and Teddy Roosevelt--We Go Way Back

It's fair to say that in my family, we keep things. Not because they are of particular value. Not always because they have significant sentimental connections. Things of interest are kept because. . .well, they are interesting. It seems the right thing to do, keeping anything unusual, anything with an amusing story attached, or anything we aren't absolutely sure might not someday turn out to have real monetary value. Antiques Roadshow is loaded with folks like us, who keep things because.



That's how I became involved withTeddy Roosevelt. He's been around as long as I can remember. Legend has it he came to reside with my parents when I was still a baby. As closely as my mother could recall, he was discovered while clearing out the basement of a building chosen to house the vocational school where my father would be teaching. Someone in charge permitted my father to take him, hinting that someday this slightly damaged bronze casting of horse and rider might be worth a lot of money. My father, always in need of a lot more money than he had, brought it home, added a false mustache to compensate for the horse's missing tail, and for most of my childhood, Theodore Roosevelt served as an interesting doorstop in our living room. It's always been obvious that Teddy was intended for better things. While not an original bronze casting, this replica must at some point in time have held a more exalted position. But no one uncovered his origins, no one knew exactly where he resided before he came to us, and frankly, in the grand scheme of our lives, he wasn't a priority. He was just there, to earn the occasional comment from a visitor, and to be dusted.



Wish I was a better photographer!

Fast forward several decades. When I was packing up my mother's home in Virginia, preparing to move her into a senior apartment out here in Kansas where so many of those "kept" things couldn't be kept any longer, I discovered time had not treated Teddy kindly. Not only was his horse tailless, but Teddy himself had lost a foot, boot and all. I carefully packed up the remains and brought him to Kansas, because. . .well, Teddy was still interesting and something of a mystery, one I wanted to clear up if possible. I felt I owed it to Teddy, not to mention my parents, to finally uncover whatever history and value this thing might have. Surely with the wealth of information at my fingertips via the internet, I could dig up something. My mother still held out hope that Teddy represented that ship she'd been waiting for all those years. It would be wonderful to find out this thing we'd lugged around for decades was really a treasure, but it would also be nice to put the pipedream to rest.

Well, I pretty much failed at learning anything beyond the name of the artist who created our Teddy. Turns out all along, if anyone had looked closely enough, the signature was right there next to that poor lion. "Bofill" led me to Antoine Bofill, Spanish sculptor, 1875-1921, who apparently worked mostly in Paris around the turn of the 20th century. There are a few photos of his other works, mostly small bronzes, but nothing, absolutely nothing to tie him to the 26th President of the United States.

I did find a very skilled restorer to put Teddy and his horse to rights. The cost of the restoration probably far exceeds the market value of the piece, but it was well worth it to me to toss out that old mustache and proudly display Teddy on the mantel instead of hiding him behind a door.

I have pieced together a vague provenance for Teddy. Turns out that building where he came to my father's attention was once part of the Richmond public library system. Given the condition when found, Teddy was probably stuck in the basement after some unfortunate incident broke the tail off his horse. Since this is likely one of many such replicas of the original, it makes sense that someone deemed this representation of our 26th President suitable décor for a public library. In a time when big game hunting and a dead lion would not have offended anyone's sensibilities, the 26th President astride his horse astride his most recent kill would have been deemed a classical pose. I can imagine some wealthy donor of the day purchasing Teddy for the new branch of the library, where he would have held a place of honor--Teddy, not the donor. After a series of future presidents came and went, Teddy was probably delegated to a less prestigious spot where some clumsy person caused the aforementioned unfortunate incident. A tailless horse would no doubt have offended the sensibilities of any number of animal lovers, and thus Teddy was sent to ignominious exile in the basement, to be discovered by my father and rescued.

I do wish I could learn more about our Teddy. Where is the original, for starters? Why was he cast in bronze by a Spanish sculptor in Paris? Why that pose? What was the name of the horse? If anyone out there has any clues, please let me know. Meanwhile, President Theodore Roosevelt, known to me as Teddy from the time I could talk, resides on the mantel in our humble library here in Kansas. I'm really a little proud of myself for having saved him. He remains one of the "kept" things I treasure, not only for his "interesting" qualities, but because I feel he and I have shared a long and arduous journey. He's been with me all my life and when we part, I hope those who come after me will find him interesting enough to keep around.

Hearts Unfold--Begin at the Beginning

 This weekend, Hearts Unfold, the first installment in the Miracle at Valley Rise series, is free for Kindle. I invite you to help yourself to a copy and discover the love story readers are calling "heartwarming," "inspiring" and "impossible to put down."

Nineteen-year-old Emily Haynes had lost almost everything she loved.  Relying on what seems to be guidance from her invalid father, she returns to her past in hopes of finding some sign toward the future.  What begins as a joyous homecoming quickly turns into a nightmare when a badly injured stranger stumbles on the scene, his brief presence threatening to alter everything she believes about herself and the plan for her life.  A less determined girl might have been shaken by such an experience, but not Emily.  She is certain she’s made the right choice, so certain that in the following three years, she almost convinces herself.

Super-star violinist Stani Moss appeared to have everything, fame, fortune and a career guaranteed to bring more of the same, until one hasty decision placed it all in jeopardy.  Terrified and confused, he struggles not only to recover his former skill, but to find answers to the questions which haunt him.  Throughout his slow journey back, one image lingers in his buried memories of that fateful night—the vision of a girl he’s never met.  The journey will eventually lead him to Emily, and beyond that day, everything about his life will be transformed.

Set in the years around 1970, Hearts Unfold begins the saga of two people whose paths should never have crossed, who defy the odds to create a life they can share.  The first of four volumes in the Miracle at Valley Rise Series, this novel could stand alone as a triumphant tale of romance, but there’s much more to the story, as Emily and Stani reveal their pasts and strive to bridge the distance between their worlds.  Follow their progress, be entertained by their adventures, and perhaps be inspired by their unwavering belief in the transforming power of love. 

A Little Something From Me to You

That's right--Hearts Unfold, the place it all begins, is currently FREE. Not just for KindleUnlimited or Amazon Prime members, but for EVERYONE who enjoys a heartwarming love story.

Silence is Golden? Not so Much.

You know that sound, the echo of your own thoughts bouncing off the infinite emptiness of the universe? Silence!

There were times as a young mother when I would probably have given my best pair of designer knock-off platform heels for a few moments of that silence. At the end of a day, when I left a classroom of preschoolers for my two under-the-age-of-seven offspring, I admit I wanted nothing so much as the silent solitude of my closet-sized kitchen. Parking my children in front of Halfpint and the gang at Little House on the Prairie in exchange for a few quiet minutes seemed a forgivable offense.

As the saying goes, it's all or nothing. Forty years ago, silence was indeed golden. Fast forward a few decades and all this silence can get downright depressing.

Now don't get me wrong. I appreciate quiet. As a writer, it's essential. What I'm talking about here is silence as a response. You know those Christmas cards you send to old friends, closing your note with "I'd love to hear how you're doing?" And the doubt you feel when nothing comes back--not a note, not a phone call, not even a card the next Christmas? Don't they like you anymore? Do they even remember who you are?

(I could mention here that blogging is much the same experience. I have very little success rousing any kind of response to my posts. I'm beginning to think the majority of my followers are bots, which is really kind of creepy. But that's another post.)

I write books, each of which is a labor of love. I get so involved in my characters that I go through a kind of grief/withdrawal when their story ends. Like sending your children off to kindergarten, I experience a mixture of proud expectation and panic after hitting that magical "Publish" button, sending my stories into the vast unknown. And then I wait. In silence. I watch the sales numbers creeping upward. Somewhere out there, my books are stored in a fair number of Kindles. Waiting to be read. Being read. Have been read. Finally, the silence is broken. Those first reviews are like the voices of a rescue party coming through the fog. Someone heard me after all!

A book is only words on paper until it touches a reader. For this writer, putting a face or at least a  voice to that reader is a priceless return on my heartfelt labor. When someone tells me they read my book, I'm thrilled! They don't even have to say they liked it!

Recently, things have been a bit slow. Summers are like that. There are so many things to do other than read. I don't begrudge folks their vacations, or all the other wonderful pastimes that fill the short months. Hearing from a reader means that much more when the silence drags on for weeks. . .and weeks. . .and weeks.

 

This morning at church two people told me they were reading my books. Last week, my grandson, who's on vacation, sent me this picture of one of my "children" residing in a home hundreds of miles across the country. My new release has five reviews already! That's all it takes. Just the validation--not a word I'm fond of, but it fits--that somewhere out there, those words I poured onto virtual paper are coming to life in the minds of readers.

Moral to this post--reward your authors by breaking the silence. Don't take it for granted that they know you like their work. Don't assume they won't care what you have to say. Write a review, or if you're not a reviewer, send them a message on Facebook or an email. Whether your favorites are household name bestsellers or yet to be heard of indies, if they're still breathing, they're waiting to hear from you.

Antsy August Giveaway

We haven't even reached the middle of August yet, and for some reason, I'm feeling restless. Not that I don't have plenty to do--there's the garden and that pesky reno of the dining room, not to mention any number of housekeeping projects. But the truth is, while I'm not writing another book just yet, I feel the need to do something at least a little bit writer-ish.
So here's what I'm thinking--why not have a little giveaway, or two or three? See if we can liven things up a little. I'll get to see who is or is not finding their way here, and some of you will get free books.


It's really very simple. You're already here on the blog. There are seven previews of my new book, Katie Lost and Found, in the posts this month and last. Just go to the preview mentioned in the question, find the answer--I promise it's as obvious as the nose on your face--and post it in the comments along with your name. On the third day, I'll put the names in a hat and draw a winner, who will receive their choice of a download of any of my books. Then I'll post another question, and so on. Depending on how things go, we could do this for the rest of the month, right? That would add up to six questions and six winners.


So here we go. Question number one--winner to be announced on the evening of August 17.


In Preview #1, http://valleyrise.blogspot.com/2014/07/katie-lost-and-found-preview-1.html, Tess and Cami are discussing the guests expected to arrive at Walnut Lodge that evening. Name the guest booked into the carriage house and his occupation.

Why Robin Williams?

Last night and this morning, FB is filled with posts expressing sadness and shock at the death of Robin Williams. Why? I suspect because we all felt we somehow knew him and the loss is personal in a very real way. Just as with the recent deaths of Cory Monteith and Lee Young, we are brought face to face with the tragic truth of suicide. We don't see it coming, yet when it strikes, we are compelled to respond with the desperate hope of preventing the next one.


I don't normally weigh in on this issue. For me it is indeed personal and I fear my private grief will color my comments. But last night these thoughts circled my dreams, and in the light of day, it occurs to me that if my thoughts touch one of the 30 or 40 who seem to follow this blog, perhaps it is worth putting them here. But be warned, my ideas are based on what suicide looks like from the inside and may not ease your mind on the subject.


My father with his students-printed in the school paper at his death.

Only this past year did I finally get around to destroying the letter my father wrote to my mother the day he died. I had promised myself for years that it would not be left for another generation to find when I was gone; that it was not meant to be part of my legacy to my children and grandchildren, but a heartfelt farewell to the woman he loved. But the words are forever burned into my memory, words that seem to make so much sense and yet explain nothing.

In 1957, at the age of thirty, my father chose to end his life because, in his own words, he was weary. He described a loss of enthusiasm for living, falling of short of his expectations for himself in every area of his life, feeling old despite his thirty years of age. He expresses his joy in my mother's love, despite feeling he never deserved it. He blames no one, saying he's considered suicide many times during his life, looked for alternatives, and now believes it is the best way.


While he didn't enumerate his struggles, they had been obvious to those close to him. Possessed of considerable talent, he had failed to achieve recognition, at least the kind he sought. An aspiring writer and a gifted cartoonist, his numerous submissions had met with rejection, something he found very hard to accept. His career as a high school teacher was not the one he'd hoped for, and although he was loved and admired by his students, his performance came under criticism from his superiors, something else he found hard to accept. In fact, at the time of his death, he had decided to leave teaching for some as yet undecided new venture. During periods of high spirits, he ran up debts far beyond his ability to repay and made notably poor choices; during the low times, he turned to alcohol to ease the pain. He was a classic bi-polar with a load of baggage from his childhood. In short, he was a suicide waiting to happen.


In 1957 there was little viable treatment available for depression or bi-polar disorder compared to that today. My father did turn to the VA at one point, asking for help, but was told there was nothing wrong with him. To be fair, based on what they could see, there wasn't. He went to work, to church, taught and mentored young people, loved his family and had a kind word for everyone he met. The kind of illness which caused his pain was only visible in his eyes if you knew him well enough to see it. Even those who saw it convinced themselves he would never do anything so drastic. Only after the fact did they admit they had any fear he would self-destruct.


Also, in 1957, suicide was looked upon as an ugly secret among many families, something to keep hidden in shame. I was fortunate that that was not the case in my family, but there were others, who I'm sure considered themselves well-intentioned, who pointed out the disgrace my father had brought on us by ending his life. Time and again I went to my mother in tears, to have her remind me that no matter how hurt we were by his leaving, we must understand that he loved us and meant to do the best thing for us all. In fact, those had been his words as well. He said in his letter that he had spent weeks working out the best way, the method that would hurt us the least. He planned carefully, making sure my mother would not be the one to find him, indicating his plans to no one who might try to warn her. From all indications, he was carrying out what he had long seen as a option to end his suffering before he inflicted more on those he loved.


Could he have been stopped? I don't believe so. If not that day, someday, he would have succumbed to that weariness. That said, I believe some potential suicides can be prevented, and we must work unceasingly to raise awareness and encourage treatment. But for every one that is prevented, there will be others that won't be. We will be shocked and saddened, and hopefully led to look more closely at those around us. But when the unspeakable happens again, as it surely will, my hope is that we will not second-guess the reasons, look for what-if's, or lay blame at the feet of the victim or those who loved him. Whether it be someone as widely known as Robin Williams or someone in our own community or family, we will instead acknowledge the value of the life lived, even as we sorrowfully accept its end.


Just as all cancers can not be cured, all depressions cannot either. Each case is different, the sum of a person's life experiences compounded by the mysteries of brain chemistry. Just as all illnesses are not addressed "in time," the potential of those who suffer depression is not necessarily recognized until it is too late, even by those who suspect they may be suffering. Human nature requires us to question what might have been, pointless as that might seem. Fortunately, human nature also prods us to persistently seek a better way. Therein lies hope for some and comfort for others.